WaltersRail

Far West Texas is some of the loneliest terrain in a world of lonely terrain. The Chihuahuan Desert fills the valleys between scattered mountains that rise above the arid flora like mistakes, as though when God created this place He could not make up His mind exactly what He wanted. Desert? Mountains? Flatlands? Why not a little of everything?

In the image above, Union Pacific auto racks are rolling through the desert, framed against the Apache Mountains, the highest peak of which stands 5,650 feet above sea level, one of three exposed portions of the largest fossil reef in the world (the others are the Guadalupe and Glass Mountains, also in far West Texas).

The reef was formed during the Permian -- which extended from the end of the Carboniferous (about 300 million years ago) to the beginning of the Triassic (about 250 million years ago) -- when what is now West Texas was under water. Lime-secreting algae were the main reef-builders. Their remains and the lime they secreted formed the reef. Think of the fantastic amount of algae and the enormous time span necessary to create these mountains, which have eroded over the eons to steep peaks with deep isolated valleys that have trapped more than one unwary hiker.

Eastbound stacks beneath the Apache Mountains.

More stacks beneath the Apache Mountains.

Union Pacific east of Van Horn, Texas.

Union Pacific west of Van Horn, Texas.

As these two maps show, the UP line east of Van Horn runs parallel and north of I-10 in the shadow of the Apache Mountains. The terrain is relatively flat until the tracks turn north and separate from the Interstate. To the west, trains immediately begin the short climb across the Carrizo Mountains, then fall rapidly downgrade to flatlands, turning northwest beside the Interstate all the way to the tiny settlement of Sierra Blanca, where the tracks (the old Missouri Pacific line from Fort Worth) connect with the old Southern Pacific Sunset Route from New Orleans and Houston. Today, of course, Union Pacific operates both.

Past Sierra Blanca, the tracks turn almost due north and began a long curving descent into the valley of the Rio Grande, overlooked by an eponimously-named peak. Eastbound trains slowly climb the steep grade, often reduced to 10 MPH or less, while westbounds coast serenely downhill with dynamic breaks whining.

Below is an aerial image of the descent into the river valley. You can clearly see the orginal roadbed winding torturously downgrade, including a narrow horseshoe curve. The tracks were realigned years ago to a huge sweeping curve with a shallower grade.

This area of Texas is commonly referred to as the Trans Pecos (pronounced pay'-cuss). The headwaters of the Pecos River are in the Sangre de Christo (Blood of Christ) Mountains of northern New Mexico. The river runs south-southeast into Texas, flowing into the Rio Grande at Del Rio.

West of the Pecos contains mountains and part of the Chihuahuan Desert and to outsiders looks like the "Wild West." Traveling through this country years ago with an English friend, I asked if she was enjoying the train ride.

"It looks like a cowboy movie," she replied.

The earliest-known settlers were the Pecos Pueblo Indians, who arrived about A.D. 800 and then left within a hundred years or so. The first European was Francisco Vazquez de Coronado, arriving in 1541. In 1583 Antonio de Espejo named the river Río de las Vacas, “River of the Cows,” because of bison herds. Spanish explorer Gaspar Castano de Sosa called it Río Salado because of its saline content. Mexicans called it Río Puerco, "Pig River.”

Eastbound in the Carizzo Mountains, rolling downgrade to Van Horn.

Westbound beneath Sierra Blanca (White Mountain), rolling downgrade into the Rio Grande Valley..

The Trans Pecos is dominated by the Chihuahuan Desert, about half of which lies in Mexico, with the other half in west Texas, southern New Mexico and southeastern Arizona. This locale is somewhat like the Basin and Range country of Nevada -- mountain peaks alternating with flat valleys.

A "desert" is characterized by about ten inches or less rain per year, and the valleys of the Chihuahuan certainly qualify. Van Horn, Texas, averages almost exactly ten. The taller mountains receive a little more, and some support timber.

Ten inches or less rain per year, however, is not the only requirement for a desert. How and when the rain falls makes a huge difference. If an area receives .8 inches of rain each month, with .2 inches falling each week, it will receive 9.6 inches of rain per year. But such a consistent, though slight, rainfall pattern would support relatively lush flora because the soil would stay moist year around, especially if the temperature rarely if ever rose above 80 degrees Fahrenheit or below 50.

Your author is not aware of any place on earth with such a climate. Typically, deserts receive rainfall during limited times of the year. And when it does rain, it often pours, which causes most of the water to run off rather than soaking into the soil. Months can go by during the dry season without a drop.

Typically, rain falls in the Chihuahuan Desert only from July to October, which means that the land is bone dry for about seven months each year, during which the soil dries out and the wind blows. Plants and animals surviving in such a climate must be able to store water for the dry season.

Westbound Amtrak below Sierra Blanca.

Merchandise freight in same location.

The Chihuahuan has more species of cacti than any other desert in the world, yet cacti do not dominate the landscape. As the images above and below demonstrate, this land is covered with dwarf shrubs, two or three feet tall, that blanket the ground like steel wool. This country is bereft of the trees (Palo Verde) and tall cacti (Sahuaro) found in the Sonoran Desert to the west.

In the Sonoran, you generally can walk through the vegetation without too much trouble, provided you pay attention and do not stumble blindly ahead. In the Chihuahuan, on the other hand, the low shrubs grow almost side-by-side. It is still possible to walk, but the path you trace will resemble the curious circumnavigation of an ant.

If you doubt the harshness of this place, consider that after the Pecos Puebloans vacated, no Native tribe established a permanent settlement in the Trans Pecos. Several migratory groups hunted there, most notably the Eastern Apaches in the mountains, but no one -- repeat no one -- lived there.

A tiny church group settled at St. Gall, Texas, in 1845, and Fort Lancaster was built near the river in 1855. Except for settlement around the fort, the earliest Anglo settlement was the eponymously named Pecos, founded in 1881 when the Texas and Pacific Railway came through.

To this day, the country is sparsely settled, and some would say that it is not settled at all. Ranch houses show up occasionally in the desert flatlands, but many have been abandoned for years, odd relics in an unforgiving land, almost like asteroid fragments that fell from a cloudless sky.

Along Interstate 10 there are many fragments of an old highway. Most follow the new road closely, but some wander out into the dry landscape, and if you drive one, you feel as though you have abandoned civilization, even though you can hear the constant roar from the relatively close interstate. You will find abandoned houses and derelict gas stations along these highway fragments, one of which juts into the Carizzo Mountains and provides access to the railroad tracks. The land is fenced, but there are no cattle, no structures and no people -- just mostly agave and sand sage.

Late afternoon in the Apache Mountains.

Beside Sierra Blanca.

When I last visited this country, on a cloudy morning I decided to take a look at the old Southern Pacific Sunset Route coming east from Houston to El Paso. In the area near Sierra Blanca where I was located, the tracks run out in the desert by themselves, nowhere near a highway or even dirt road. But I was driving my trusty Jeep Wrangler, and I felt invincible.

Consulting aerial images on my iphone, I saw what looked like a cattle trail leading to the tracks. It was more like a goat trail, though I do not think any goats live in the desert. The Jeep followed it easily. Before I reached the tracks, I came to an open gate behind which lay a moderately decent dirt road. I had not seen a soul in the past half hour, so I drove through. I could see the railroad to the north, about a half-mile away. I followed the dirt road to a small ranch house, in front of which was parked a Ford F-150 with multiple road scars.

The house looked deserted. I parked and walked to a front window and saw no furniture or other evidence of habitation. I tried the front door -- unlocked -- but I did not walk inside. I checked the F-150, battered but apparently road-worthy. The whole place looked as thougth a neutron bomb had gone off, vaporizing all animal life but nothing else.

Beyond the ranch house to the north, the road led to a heavy steel gate, with a motorized opening and closing system. I drove to it, hoping to find my way back to a main road, but the gate was locked, not once, not twice, but with about ten different pad locks. Beside the gate was a card reader on a pole. It looked as though if you slid a proper card into the mechanism, the gate would open. But not with all those padlocks.

Instead of retracing my route, I decided to press westward. The dirt road grew rougher as I drove, filled with holes and washouts, but my Wranger rolled on without pause. Then I arrived at a location where the road had been recently graded smooth, which continued for about three miles, where I found a bulldozer parked in the brush. Beyond, the "road" turned into two wheels ruts in the desert.

I continued westward; the "road"continued deteriorating. More than once I thought about turning back, but the aerial image on my iphone showed that within less than a mile, I would reach a main road. I drove past multiple water troughs and through multiple unlocked gates that I opened and closed by simply lifting and then depressing a wire hook.

I seemed to be in the middle of a huge cattle ranch, but I saw no cattle and no people. I bounced through the desert and all at once arrived at a wide gravel road running north and south. A sign announced that a ranch house was three miles to the south, while Interstate 10 about four miles to the north.

I was tempted to drive to the ranch house, but I had been in the back country now for over an hour and longed to be back on a highway. The road in front of me was obviously well-maintained, so I turned north and was glad I had found the way back to civilization.

In about ten minutes, not seeing another vehicle, I came to another large gate with an electric opening and closing system and another card reader beside the road. This gate, like the last one, was secured with about ten pad locks. It dawned on my razor sharp mind that the only way out was to retrace my route, which would take another hour or so. I parked and walked along the fence to see if any wire was down. The fence was constructed of metal poles with six strands of tightly-strung barbed wire -- an expensive proposition erected by someone or some company with major capital. So where were all the people? Where were the cattle?

I carry wire cutters in my Jeep and used them to cut a hole in the fence, through which I drove and found my way back to the Interstate, where I saw a huge sign indicating that I had just driven out of a major cattle operation. Except it was deserted -- like everything else around me.

Climbing east out of the Rio Grande Valley, with Sierra Blanca in the background.

Another eastbound through desert shrubbery.

In 1871, Congress granted a federal charter to the Texas and Pacific Railroad to construct a line from Marshall, Texas, to San Diego, California -- the southern transcontinental railroad, the building of which had been delayed by what some Texans to this day refer to as "The Recent Unpleasantness"; i.e. the American Civil War. Congress gave the company twenty sections of land per mile through California and forty sections through what are now Arizona and New Mexico. The state legislature chipped in with twenty sections per mile in the Lone Star State.

Because of lack of funds, construction west of Forth Worth languished until a consortium headed by Jay Gould purchased a controlling interest in the company. Dirt work west of Fort Worth began April 1, 1880. Rails reached Sierra Blanca December 16, 1881, having navigated through 12 Texas counties inhabited mostly by prairie dogs, cacti and coyotes.

California-based Southern Pacific constructed a line through the Mojave to the Colorado River, overlooking Yuma, Arizona Territory, where Congress had decreed it should meet the Texas and Pacific (authorized to contruct a bridge across the river). Collis P. Huntington and his associates basically told Congress to go to hell, constructing a bridge and then continuing east all the way to El Paso in May 1881.

A single unit pulling a short stack train out of the valley of the Rio Grande.

Cresting the summit of the Carrizo Mountains.

In proceeding east of Yuma, the virus-like Southern Pacific had invaded the right-of-way previously surveyed by the Texas and Pacific, resulting in a not-surprising lawsuit in which the T&P asked the court to exercise equitable jurisdiction and order Southern Pacific to relinquish the tracks between El Paso and Yuma. As far as your author can determine, the case never went to trial and instead was settled by what came to be called the "Gould-Huntington Agreement," under which Southern Pacific would build east to Sierra Blanca. The T&P obtained trackage rights from Sierra Blanca to El Paso and relinquished all rights west of El Paso. The Texas and Pacific later unsuccessfully tried in the Interstate Commerce Commission and the courts to secure a one-half interest in the Sierra Blanca-El Paso line.

In September 1964, the Texas and Pacific acquired control of three lines in Oklahoma: (1) the Kansas, Oklahoma and Gulf, (2) the Midland Valley and (3) the Oklahoma City-Ada-Atoka. The O-A-A was later sold to the Santa Fe, which eventually abandoned it.

By 1930 the Missouri Pacific owned about 75 percent of Texas and Pacific stock and kept increasing its purchases until in 1974 it owned 97 percent. In 1976, the Missouri Pacific swallowed the Texas and Pacific.

On December 22, 1982, the Union Pacific purchased the Missouri Pacific. On September 12, 1996, the Union Pacific purchased the Southern Pacific.

Climbing west through the Carrizo Mountains.

Eastbound approaching Van Horn, Texas.

I want to describe this border country. I say "border" because the Rio Grande and Mexico are only 17 miles from Sierra Blanca, and those 17 miles are filled with mountains and desert and nothing else.

Words like "lonely" and "forlorn" come to mind but do not began to do justice to this place. The few people who live here, on both sides of the river, are as hard and sun-baked and unsentimental as the desert, as though living in a place sooner or later transforms you into something you had not contemplated.

Virtually everyone here speaks both English and Spanish, the most common tongue being Spanglish (a combination), and it is said that the best English speakers live in Mexico and the best Spanish in Texas.

One of America's greatest authors, Cormac McCarthy, wrote about this country in his Border Trilogy:

"In the end we all come to be cured of our sentiments. Those whom life does not cure death will. The world is quite ruthless in selecting between the dream and reality, even where we will not." All the Pretty Horses.

“She looked up at him and her face was pale and austere in the uplight and her eyes lost in their darkly shadowed hollows save only for the glint of them and he could see her throat move in the light and he saw in her face and in her figure something he'd not seen before and the name of that thing was sorrow.” All the Pretty Horses.

Rolling downgrade toward the Rio Grande.

Climbing out of the valley.

West of Van Horn.

I think that the word most descriptive of this country is "sorrow." You cannot live in the desert and avoid that word or its brother "despair." Living in the desert forces upon you the great contradiction of life. When you are young, you are afraid you will die. When you are old, you are afraid you won't.

This eastbound merchandise freight is climbing the grade across the Carrizo Mountains.

These westbound stacks have just crested the Carrizo Mountains summit.

Following are images of the Union Pacific from Texas State Highway 118 in the east, where the tracks turn north away from Interstate 10, to the point northwest of Sierra Blance where the railroad crosses under the Interstate and enters the Rio Grande Valley.

Eastbound stacks have passed Texas State Highway 118 and are turning north away from I-10.

East of Van Horn in the open desert.

In the flatlands beneath the Apache Mountains.

Edge of the Apache Mountains.

Dusk in the Apache Mountains.

Downgrade in the Carrizo Mountains.

Upgrade.

Nearing the summit.

Summit.

Westbound stacks have crested the summit after meeting an eastbound in the siding.

Past the Carrizo Mountains westbound on the desert, with Sierra Blanca in the backgroound

Approaching the village of Sierra Blance, Texas.

Leaving the valley of the Rio Grande.

This small protuberance is part of the Quitman Mountains.

Coasting downhill beneath Sierra Blanca.

Grinding upgrade.

An eclectic mix of power begins to climb out of the Rio Grande Valley.

This westbound manifest bids farewell to Sierra Blanca.

The desert is harsh and unforgiving, and life in the desert teaches you that almost everything you value is unimportant. Humans are hard-wired to seek comfort and longevity, and though both are now within the reach of many, neither nourishes. To be comfortable is to be bored. To live a long life into senility is no blessing.

In the desert, you grapple daily with existence. To be or not to be. Indeed.

To see my other posts, go to waltersrail.com.

To see my photographs on Flickr, go to https://www.flickr.com/photos/jpwalters/.

WaltersRail

Sunday, December 8, 2024

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Union Pacific in the West Texas Chihuahuan Desert

The Author